He was The Master. I was the Apprentice. My hour of passage was at hand. I was 11, about to become a True Desert Rat. The Master Sergeant, the Yoda of all things Desert Rat, was going to show me The Way of the Swamp Box. âBecause someday, son, youâll have one of these rust buckets on your own roof. Ladder.â
âCheck.â
âCooler pads. Oil. Screwdriver. Pliers.â
âGot âem all, Dad.â
âSchlitz. Grab me one. Donât tell your mother.â Subterfuge deepened our bond.
Lo, I returned with the âholy water.â He popped the brew, extended the ladder, fired up a Marlboro, tossed the fresh cooler pads on his mighty shoulders and hauled himself up onto the roof, rung by rung, puff by puff, sip by sip, belch by belch. I followed with the tools. On the roof, out of momâs earshot, the old man shook the heavens with a belch like a stadium horn and launched into the benediction: âGood God, boy. Itâs hot as Hell. Letâs get this done.â
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âAmen, Pop.â
The Master turned off the Sacred Flowing Waters. We took off the rusty four sides and laid them in a circle around the naked cooler. And lo, the Master sniffed the old pads.âThey stink. Like godawful fish.âThe Master stared at me. âThis ainât âBo-nanzaâ, boy. â
Prying a pad out of its rusty panel, he jammed his thumb, and, hark, he profaned the Lord, condemning the cooler pads to Hell and calling various parts of the swamp box sons of female dogs. Laughing was a mistake. âHow would you like it if I did that to your thumb, boy?â
âI wouldnât like it.â
âYouâre not as dumb as you look.â
âYouâre not as dumb as you lookâ was the opening salvo in one of his favorite lectures, âYou want to make yourself useful?â Weâve all enjoyed stimulating lectures, but nothing can prepare you for the experience of my old man on a roll.
Among my favorite inspirational talks were, âDid you earn your allowance?â âWhen I was your age we had to work!â and âFlush the toilet! Do your homework! Pick up your laundry! Is that so hard?â
Dad enjoyed lists. Consider âA million things you arenât allowed to touch in my toolboxâ or âIâll give you five reasons.â Other topics were profoundly philosophical. âDo what I say. Not what I do.â
If the Master Sergeant were alive today, heâd have more YouTube hits than PewDiePie simply based on his oft-repeated sermonette, âShove your self-esteem.â
I hauled the old pads to the edge of the roof for Dadâs beautiful âburial at seaâ ritual. Dad spoke over the dead and calcified pads.
âUnto the landfill we commend our departed cooler pads; in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection of our glorious swamp boxâ just as soon as we pop her new pads into place. Amen?â
âAmen.â
And then we flung them off the roof. Iâd watch them drop, like Wiley Coyote onto the canyon floor below, each spinning with a âwhumpâ and producing a cloud of white dust.
The tightening of the motor belt inspired a reading from the old manâs homily, âDonât screw up, jackass.â
And, verily, as he wrenched it tight I screwed up not. He showed me how to put on the new pads, how to flush out the basin and how to seal it. And lo, we burned red as lobsters as we labored under the blazing sun.
When we got down off the roof and turned on the cooler, behold! A cold, pine-scented wind blew out of the vents. Mom saw that it was good. The Master smiled as he celebrated with a Marlboro and patted me on the back. âGo clean up. Learn by doing, son, learn by doing.â
And, yea, the Master taught me discipline, empathy, the merits of Red Skelton and creative cursing. He taught me how to fix toilets, repair flat tires and tighten leaky faucets. He clothed me, fed me, taught me how to whistle and shave, take on bullies, how to tie a tie. And lo, the swamp box was made ready for summer and the boy ready for adulthood.
And verily, the boy loved the Master.That Fatherâs Day, in our chilly living room, I interrupted his enjoyment of Joe Frazier pounding some poor palooka on the Magnavox to hand him a hand scrawled card, âThanks 4 everything Dadâ, and a poorly gift-wrapped ninety-nine cent bottle of aftershave shaped like a Model T. And, lo, tuition paid, we were good.
David Fitzsimmons: tooner@tucson.com